Persona
by Inverse-chan
Summary: COMPLETE. Kuroro X Kurapika. "They were his friends, the ones who Kurapika would protect with his life, and possibly even sacrifice his mission for. In the end, they were only liabilities."
1. Chapter 1

**Series: **Hunter X Hunter  
**Title: **Persona  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Pairing/ Characters: **Kurapika/Kuroro, some Kurapika/Leorio  
**Word Count: **2260  
**Warning/s: **Yorkshin Ark.  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a young boy, age eight, playing in the street, kicking at a roughly crafted, leather-covered ball. He was fair looking: blond hair, blue eyes, and a delicate face – if you were to only give him a cursory glance, you could even mistake him for a girl. It was a trait that he shared with many of the males in his clan. He had a concentrated look on his face as he played his game, to rules only he knew. Nevertheless, he seemed intent on not breaking them.

This boy was a Kurata, and one of the few children in the clan. There were around twenty other children his age, all with golden hair, with eye colors in various hues of the sea. The clan itself had peaceful relations with surrounding districts, although it was culturally a warrior clan. All children were trained, starting at age ten, so that they would grow up able to protect the clan and its strong ethnic values.

This boy had a name: Kurapika. He had not yet turned ten. He would never be taught the secrets of his clan, and how to use the scarlet eyes. He would eventually be forced to teach himself, crudely, to have some semblance of control over his eyes, with a purposeful intent in his mind. Revenge.

In a few weeks, his clan would cease to exist, and he would be the only survivor of what many recalled ten years later as only a mythical place. But at the moment, none of that mattered. There was no burning hatred rooted deeply in his heart; there was no undying need for vengeance, no restless search for the many pairs of crimson eyes stolen from their owners. Kurapika was just another simple child: not the brightest of his age group, but not the dullest either. He was not particularly fond of reading, nor studying in general. All he cared about was making sure the ball didn't touch the ground for more than a second at a time, because that meant that he would lose his game.

But, in fact, that doesn't matter either. None of it matters, because it's time to rewind. Turn the clock back eight and a half years, to before Kurapika was conceived. And then, imagine if Kurapika was indeed _never_ conceived. There was another child conceived in his place: a blond haired blue-eyed girl whose name has no significance, because without Kurapika, the clan itself doesn't matter. His clan is nameless without him – just another amongst the many massacred and passed over in the bulk of history texts – one day existing, and the next nothing more than a burial ground.

The little girl grew up in the Kurata clan, and when she was eight or nine, she was slaughtered along with everyone else in her village and her eyes were pillaged by a man with eyes as empty as the sky at midnight. Her screams were not silent but were nevertheless unheard. And the clan no longer existed; it had never existed without Kurapika, after all, not in the same, harrowing context. It was nameless: simply another place which had been destroyed by the Ryodan for profit.

It was in no way special.

And Kurapika, the last Kurata, was not in existence.

In his place was another child, who had blonde hair and blue eyes and an effeminate face. In his place there was another child, also male and also named Kurapika. But his eyes did not change colors, and not just for lack of training. His eyes were invariably blue. He did not hate spiders; he had never been in possession of a crudely fashioned, leather ball. He had never had toys of any sort at all, actually.

He was Kurapika, but not at the same time. He was Kurapika, but not a Kurata.

He had been born in Shooting-Star City. And he was a member of the Genei Ryodan.

* * *

He remembered a time when Kuroro had never let him go on any of the missions. He remembered clearly that he had not even been taught about thievery and fighting until after his tenth birthday, or what he remembered as his tenth birthday.

Birthdays were never very clear when you were born in Shooting-Star City. They had very little meaning, except as to function as the day when he could wake up and think, 'I'm a year older', and 'one year less before I die.'

Kurapika remembered Kuroro as not being much older than him, and younger than some of the other members of the Ryodan, but still very much in charge of everything. There had always been a presence about Kuroro that he and the others couldn't touch, couldn't come close to possessing, or even imitating. It was what made him, without question, the leader.

After he had turned ten, he had trained. His Nen turned out to be powerful – fueled by memories of the initial years of hunger and loneliness before he had run into Kuroro on a dark night, and the older man had taken him in. It was his idea to craft his Nen into a pair of double katana – shorter and quicker than the one Nobunaga used. They were fastened together with an unbreakable chain, and through years of hard work, he had become one of the most respected and powerful members of the Ryodan.

At age eleven, he had been allowed on his first mission: one that had been incredibly successful.

And his early teens had been filled with thievery, training, and murder. And oddly, he couldn't bring himself to feel even a hint of guilt when killing; it was merely an act that was unavoidable in his line of work. He didn't feel pleasure, either, like he some of the other Ryodan members did – when it came to business, he was emotionless.

This did not in any way imply that he was emotionless otherwise.

When he turned seventeen, he had fallen in love.

Kurapika's reserved personality led to him viciously denying it. He had done everything, every possible thing, to fall _out_ of love. But in the end, it had been very much unsuccessful.

And so, after Shizuku's prodding and Machi's silent approval, he had finally steeled himself to confess.

And although he hadn't been expecting for Kuroro to feel the same, he definitely couldn't say he was displeased with the way things had turned out.

Two years later, and he was still hopelessly in love with the Ryodan leader. And together, they came to lead the team with utmost efficiency and the combined knowledge of two great minds.

But in real life, there's no such thing as a fairytale ending. There's no such thing as true, unbroken happiness. Because in this scenario, things were too perfect – too flawless. There had been nearly no obstacles at all – there had been nothing in the way of their mutual love. In this version of the story, there had been no need for revenge, and Kurapika had not suffered nearly enough. He hadn't gone through the things, the trials, that would make anger and revenge so ingrained to his character that they would eclipse his almost infallible rationality.

Hate, it turns out, far outreaches such paltry boundaries such as life and death. It is in its nature something that can reach past logic and reason – something that can surpass things believed unsurpassable. The past, the present, the future.

Even dimensions.

In this version, this mockery in which Kurapika was allowed happiness, there was a glitch. Two worlds had collided, and where they didn't overlap, they _forced_ themselves to overlap.

In this version Kurapika _had_ been a Kurata, but not really. There had been no girl conceived in his place, but there was the corpse of a girl conceived in his place, rotting underneath the ground, her eye sockets empty.

In this world, Kurapika had been born in the Kurata village and in Shooting-Star City at the same time. They were so different but they were the same person after all; they simply didn't know it yet.

The worlds collided, and not a single person in either dimension felt the ground-shattering clash.

But it was the night that Kurapika, the Kurapika who was hopelessly in love, started to dream.

* * *

The dreams had been pleasant at first – quiet, chattering voices and the trickle of a nearby stream that Kurapika did not remember ever visiting. Flashes of smiling faces, of golden hair and the smell of wind and grass. A child's laughter, and the steady thump of a crudely constructed leather ball hitting the floor, never resting for more than a second. He could not recognize their faces, but he knew their names – all of their names – and they knew his.

The dreams left him softly, like the whisper of a breeze. And he wakes up, smiling, and looks into the eyes of his beloved, thinking them dark and romantic.

But something had gone wrong in his dreamland. And suddenly he wasn't himself anymore.

He walked through a village, one so familiar, with roads he had committed to memory. But it was a detached remembering – it was a memory, but at the same time, it wasn't _his_ memory. But he looked down at his hands, and they were his hands from a decade ago. He could see the border fringe of his golden hair, framing his face. So he knew it was himself, he could tell that the body was his own.

He saw the corpses, but did not allow himself to bend over and look closely. Because he knew, he simply_ knew_, what he would find if he looked into the faces – faces that had names attached to them.

And even if he didn't know them… even if he had never seen them before…

He was afraid to look, because he _knew_ the eye sockets would be empty. He was too much of a coward to check.

He wakes up to the face of his lover, his lover with eyes the color of soot. And he wakes up with the taste of ashes in his mouth, and wonders who it is that has died.

* * *

"Kuroro?" Kurapika spoke softly, voice oddly low.

The dark haired man turned to him, a small smile on the corner of his lips. "Yes?" Kuroro answered, but his voice was above that of a whisper.

"Why is the symbol of the Ryodan a spider?" Kurapika asked, and as he spoke, the dark bags under his eyes seemed to stand out, vividly.

Kuroro blinked at the unusual question; he had thought that Kurapika already knew the answer.

"Because a spider can live even without its head. Spiders are, in that way, immortal."

Kurapika closed his eyes, and Kuroro was hit by the thought that the younger man wasn't getting enough sleep. That in this half light, his face only partially illuminated from the weak light of a gray day, Kurapika looked ages older than he was. "I don't think I like them. Spiders, I mean."

There was nothing Kuroro could say to that; he knew from Kurapika's expression that he did not mean it as an insult. But Kuroro couldn't understand why, after all these years of being a member of the Ryodan, only now did Kurapika voice an objection to their symbol.

Kurapika didn't understand it completely himself. He was lost in a dream.

And he had the feeling that in it, he didn't like spiders at all.

* * *

_Kurapika couldn't breathe. _

_There was no _air_. There was so much blood, that the very molecules of oxygen had been squeezed out, forced out to make more room for the blood that he could practically _see_ evaporating. _

_And Kurapika couldn't breathe. _

_There were corpses. There were so many corpses. And he knew these people, because they weren't simply corpses. They were his clan, his family. They were real, and they were in front of him. _

_They did not have eyes. _

_And, in every single case, the mouths were gaping; distorted so that Kurapika knew they last thing uttered had been a mindless scream. _

_It was him walking these streets – _itwashimitwashimitwashim_ – it was him walking these streets, because these streets belonged to him. In this place, this dream, the streets were as familiar to him as Shooting Star City was to him in the day – his feet moved mechanically, knowing the way from the thousands of times he had taken this path before. They were the streets of his childhood, ingrained in his subconscious, and only now being uncovered. These were his memories, these corpses belonged to him. _

_This was his past, and Kurapika couldn't breathe. _

_He was angry. That wasn't precisely correct – he knew that _he _wasn't angry. But there was something in him that was murderously so; a part seething, just below the surface, with a rage that he could almost detach from _himself_. _

_And with a sudden flash of knowledge, he knew his eyes were no longer blue, but a crimson shade they had never been before. _

* * *

Kurapika woke up with a jolt, as he sat bolt upright in bed, breath labored. Beside him, he felt Kuroro shift, and Kurapika knew the man's eyes would be filled with concern.

Kurapika taught himself, in those few moments, how to breathe again.

And when he turned to Kuroro, to reassure the man that he was alright, that it had just been a dream, he knew his eyes were blue again.

In fact, he could not remember them ever being anything but blue.

* * *

AN:

* Kurapika's Nen katana, or Kan, are modeled after the ones he had with him during the hunter exam.


	2. Chapter 2

**Series: **Hunter X Hunter  
**Title: **Persona  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Pairing/ Characters: **Kurapika/Kuroro, some Kurapika/Leorio  
**Word Count: **1563  
**Warning/s: **None.  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

* * *

Kurapika had a tattoo of a thirteen-legged spider on him, as did all members of the Genei Ryodan. It was small, almost delicate compared to those of the other members, but it was clearly distinguishable on his pale skin.

It was positioned right above his heart. It was crafted so that it would resemble a black widow, with a large protruding belly and thin, short legs. In the middle, where the blood red hourglass would sit on a real black widow, was a number four instead. It was the color of fire-red agony, and the overall message conveyed by the tattoo was unmistakable; it said that he was a member of the Ryodan, and that despite his looks, he was perhaps the most deadly of all.

Kurapika remembered that Kuroro had been with him when he had gotten it. Kuroro had been sitting, above his shoulder and within sight, smiling when Kurapika finally became an official member of the Ryodan, although there had never been any question that he indeed would be.

And as Kuroro smiled, Kurapika remembered feeling the first stirrings of attraction.

He did not act on his feelings until much, much later, but that really didn't matter much now, when they were finally together.

The tattoo was a reminder – an indelible mark that whispered to him everyday that this was his life, that he would never escape it even if he wished to.

It was a reminder of the Ryodan. It was perhaps the reason he knew that Kuroro was the only man he could ever love.

* * *

There was something wrong. Kurapika couldn't place his finger on it; it was a thought that kept slipping out of his grasp as soon as he caught a glimpse of it. But he knew, with a leaden certainty in his heart, that there was something horribly, horribly wrong.

He was getting the same amount of sleep. Maybe even a little more than usual. But instead of waking up refreshed and ready for a new day with Kuroro, he woke up with heavy bags under his eyes – as if he had never slept at all.

He knew that he dreamed. But he couldn't remember his dreams, whatever they may be of. He only knew that the dreams themselves were wrong – twisted out of shape somehow. When he dreamed, he couldn't remember his dreams, because in some odd way, it felt as though if the dreams were not actually his – as if he were simply an outsider looking in.

There was no rest, although Kurapika knew he got plenty of rest.

And he couldn't for the life of him shake the ice-cold feeling that had gripped his heart, as if though something terrible, something irreversible, were to happen soon.

* * *

Kurapika was dreaming, and for now, he knew it was indeed him dreaming. And if it wasn't him, then at least it was his body, and he was the one looking out of it.

There was a stream leading to a waterfall. But it wasn't the same stream from before; there were no laughing children, and chattering voices. There was only the simple crash as water plummeted towards the bottom of the waterfall, rushing towards a bottomless pool.

And suddenly, he was falling.

He did not feel himself hit the water; only the suffocation that came afterwards. The sun was so far away, and in the panic of his dream, he feared that he wouldn't be able to hold his breath long enough.

But he floated to the top, and met with the sight of a brightly shining sun. His arms were heavy in the water; he knew that he wouldn't be able to move an inch even if he used all of his strength.

Besides him, there floated a spider, floundering pitifully in the water.

Kurapika could not move, he could only hear the sound of crashing water, which meant that the waterfall was not far away now, and that he would be swallowed by the waves, after dashing his head on the sharp rocks below. He knew that fact clearly, much in the same way he knew that he wouldn't be able to move from the position he was in.

Kurapika floated further and further away from his life. And besides him, the spider floated as well, although it was making a considerably greater effort to get out of the situation than he.

There was no panic, like the one he had felt when initially falling into the water. Kurapika felt as if though he didn't very much care at all about his impending doom. He could only stare at the spider as the sound of waves came closer and closer…

When finally Kurapika pitched over the side of the waterfall, he saw the spider in the water falling over at the same time.

And Kurapika could not muster sadness for the end of his life.

He could only feel satisfaction, because he knew the spider would die as well.

And Kurapika heard a voice in his head, the moment before it was cracked open on a jagged rock. And he knew the voice as his own, but hauntingly empty and broken with revenge.

'_There are thirteen members in the Genei Ryodan,'_ the voice whispered to him.

'_And I will kill them all.'_

And for a moment, Kurapika indeed believed that he would kill them all. And for a moment, the thought did not make him sad – only filled him with a wild joy as he imagined the corpse of the man whom he loved most in the world.

* * *

When Kurapika awoke, he was sure he had dark circles underneath his eyes. He knew that despite how much sleep he had gotten, he needed more.

But he also knew, from the tight feeling in his chest, that sleep was the last thing he wanted.

Kurapika remembered dreaming. He just didn't remember what it had been about.

* * *

_Kurapika couldn't remember ever being happier in his life._

'_It's the simple pleasures,' he reflected to himself, silently, 'it's the simple pleasures that I missed the most.' _

_They were on the beach, the four of them. Gon was running across the shoreline, trying to beat the waves that came crashing at him, only to retreat back into the sea. Within moments, Gon had somehow managed to get all four of them wet, although Kurapika was still unable to figure out how _that_ had happened, considering that he himself was a good distance away, sitting under an umbrella, novel in hand. _

_It was a rare treat, for the four of them to have free time on the same day after the Hunter Exam. Kurapika knew that it would be months, even years, before the four of them could fully reunite again. _

_And so he resolved himself to be happy, to smile and laugh with the rest as if though he had nothing on his mind. And it _was_ easy to forget. It was so easy to forget, with the three of them. They made him smile, and remember himself as a whole person, instead of just a half that could only be consummate with vengeance. _

_Kurapika looked into Leorio's face, the wide, guileless face, and knew that this would be the last time they would see each other for a while. Because he knew that he would make sure of that – he would keep the others at a distance. _

_Because they were nice – too nice. And they would make him forget his goal. _

_They were his friends, the ones who Kurapika would protect with his life, and possibly even sacrifice his mission for. _

_In the end, they were only liabilities._

* * *

A mirror hung in the bathroom, and Kurapika stood before it, shirtless.

He was still for a long time – too long of a time in Kuroro's opinion. It was odd, unnatural for Kurapika to stare at his reflection for such a long time. Kurapika was not a vain person – had never been a vain person. And Kuroro thought that maybe there was something wrong with him.

"Kurapika?" Kuroro asked, almost timidly.

Sea blue eyes flickered towards him, beckoned him closer.

Kuroro joined Kurapika in front of the mirror, and found the younger man's eyes trained back on his reflection.

"Is there something wrong?" Kuroro asked, although he already knew the answer. There were heavy bags under Kurapika's eyes, impossible for anyone to miss.

Kurapika did not answer for a moment, seemingly still entranced.

Finally, he spoke. "Kuroro? My tattoo… does it seem lighter to you?"

Kuroro's eyes dipped, as he scanned the tattoo. "I don't think so," he said finally, after a moment of scrutiny, "it looks the same as ever."

And with those words, Kurapika seemed to visibly relax, resting himself back on Kuroro. Closing his eyes, Kurapika could almost imagine the crashing of a waterfall. And suddenly, he was seized with fear.

"Kuroro?" Kurapika asked, his voice not above a whisper. "Promise me you won't die. Promise me you won't ever die."

Kuroro was so taken aback that he could only nod.

And Kurapika whispered again, his voice sounding like the cracking of old autumn leaves. "You know I love you, right?"

"Yes," Kuroro whispered back, "and I love you too."

Kurapika imagined a floundering spider, and an empty voice that might have been his own.

And suddenly, Kurapika felt like crying.


	3. Chapter 3

**Series: **Hunter X Hunter  
**Title: **Persona  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Pairing/ Characters: **Kurapika/Kuroro, some Kurapika/Leorio  
**Word Count: **2077  
**Warning/s: **None.  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

* * *

Although he felt more worn out than he had for years, Kurapika knew that the world would not stop for him. He was after all, a member of the Ryodan. He was a part of a group – a piece of the whole. And the Ryodan was much more important than a few restless nights would ever be.

Life went on. And life in the Ryodan meant stealing.

A few weeks after the first sleepless night, Kurapika found himself on a mission with Kuroro. They were the only ones on that particular mission; it was relatively straightforward, and should be a brain-numbingly easy one to accomplish. The portrait they had come to steal was under minimal security – almost ridiculously inadequate considering the actual value of the painting itself. The few guards that prowled the grounds were easily bypassed – conflict was not necessary, and a disturbance might actually prove to be more of a hindrance than a boon.

They got to the painting with no trouble, but on the way out, it seemed that the guards had (finally) caught on to what was happening.

It was too late for the guards anyways, Kurapika mused. They had been dead the moment Kuroro had singled out this painting, in this mansion. They simply had not known it yet.

And so Kuroro summoned his skill book: a sight that Kurapika would never tire of. It was a movement full of grace and confidence, without the excess gaudiness that so many others in the same profession seemed to prefer.

Kuroro knew, just as Kurapika did, that the guards would be no trouble at all. His smirk said as much.

Eager to help, although Kuroro certainly didn't need it when dealing with people of this caliber, Kurapika grasped at his Nen as well, expecting to feel the solid, heavy metal in his hands in the form of his katana.

The wind carried with it a whisper, and Kurapika opened his eyes, blinking. His hands were empty, still, although he could see the katana in his mind's eye. But there was something missing, and at the same time, there was something in the way.

The dual katana would not materialize.

A few more moments, and Kuroro had dealt with all of the guards on his own. The older man gave him a concerned glance, eyes wondering.

Kuroro gazed into Kurapika's empty eyes, and he could not understand why Kurapika was staring at his hands as if he had never seen them before. And Kurapika could not for the life of him wrap his mind around the fact that his Nen would not materialize – that somehow, his katana were not his katana anymore. Reaching out, he realized that his Nen had not been sealed – that it was much the same as it had always been.

But his katana were gone.

It was not the place for this, whatever 'this' may be, Kurapika noted dimly. Slowly, he stood, and looked at Kuroro, his eyes alive once more. He silently avoided the answer to the question Kuroro asked with his eyes, instead, brushing past the man and returning with him together to the hideout.

There was no need to worry Kuroro, after all. He would figure it out later.

He _had_ to figure it out later.

* * *

It was not reasonable for him to master chains on both hands in the time frame he wished to be fully adept with materializing his Nen. It would be much more logical to simply have chains on one hand – his dominant hand – and to leave the other one free to defend with, or to perform other various tasks with.

_He had five fingers, with one chain on each finger. With his ability to utilize all groups of Nen to 100%, it was not hard to imagine that all five chain could be drastically different, each with completely unrelated abilities of its own. _

_One to capture – that was for certain. One that would be powerful enough to keep anyone in check – even a Reinforcement user at his full potential. It was not hard to believe that there may be someone in the Ryodan much more powerful than himself in terms of physical strength alone. But physical strength would do them no good, if they were unable to access it. It, therefore, must be able to restrict Nen of all sorts. It was impossible for it to be effective if it's target was not minimized – it was necessary to restrict its usage to only members of the Ryodan. It would be his Chain Jail, and arguably the strongest ability he would possess. _

_One to fight – to defeat normal foes and obstacles in his way. It would be the one he used the most; it was to be a chain unbreakable in itself and with it, the ability to douse. With it, he would be able to discover falsehoods, and possible track down the spider itself. _

_One to bind – a Judgment Chain that would force requirements on the recipients. With it, he could force the Ryodan's hand, and turn the tide into his favor. It was the only way that he could be sure that the Ryodan would not disobey his wishes, once they were in his grasp. He knew of their type – he knew they were the type of people that would do anything to stay alive, and his Judgment Chain would bend that selfishness to his will. _

_One to heal – against a foe as strong as the Ryodan, it was impossible to escape unscathed. And not only for himself, but the innocent bystanders that would surely be drawn in to the complicated game of revenge. It would be hard to control, and a great drain on his Nen, but it was absolutely necessary. There was always a risk that it would start automatically – healing any small scratch or bruise without him first dictating it to do so and draining his Nen on pointless endeavors, but he was confident that he would be able to control its properties. _

_One to protect – because there were now people that he wanted to be safe, always. Because he couldn't bear the thought of Gon, Killua, and Leorio hurting somewhere, unable to fend for themselves. And although they were liabilities, he knew that he would never let them come to harm, especially when he knew they would do something foolish and undeniably selfless to help him one day. And he knew that despite their best intentions, Gon and Leorio were too hotheaded to think clearly – a trait that would invariable get them killed when dealing with a group as powerful as the Ryodan. _

_With these five chains, he knew that it would be possible for him to defeat the spider once and for all. With these five chains, he ensured that there was nothing to hold him back – except perhaps the iota of uncertainty that he still could not dismiss. But that was not important – it was his abilities that would bring him victory, despite his wavering heart. _

_But he also knew, that these chains alone would not be enough to defeat his foe. Because revenge was a game, and he had nothing to gamble. He had nothing to offer in turn, and with such an imbalance, it would be impossible to expect something so potent in return. _

_He did not rely on his luck for something so risky. _

_And so he made the last restriction, this one not on the group he wished to target, but on himself. _

_He swore on his life. _

_And one by one, his chains danced to life. _

* * *

Kurapika did not remember why he had first wanted to materialize katana. They were so simple – almost ridiculously simple compared to some of his original ideas. But he chose katana, nonchalantly, because he hadn't really cared about materializing anything in the first place.

He had wished fervently to be from the Specialization group, and was more than a little disappointed when he found that he was from Materialization. He had wanted to be like Kuroro – with a skill book of his own. But he knew that one couldn't simply choose what group one was from – it was simply something you were born into.

With time, he had come to appreciate his katana, and the swift silent grace they possessed. They had almost become a part of him, and he felt his power grow as he became more and more familiar with them.

His katana were a part of his soul that not even Kuroro could fill.

But he could no longer picture them. He could no longer see them, the twin blades that had been so deeply ingrained to them that he thought it wasn't possible for him to ever remember their look… their feel…

They weren't there anymore. They weren't _his_ katana anymore.

* * *

There was the sound of running, the steady thump of footsteps on dirt.

Kurapika crouched, unsure of his surroundings. He was in a forest, beneath a red evening sky. There was the trickle of water again, and a strong smell of tree sap. A light breeze ruffled his hair, and he turned around to face an older man.

And suddenly, clearly, he knew that he was dreaming again.

The man was unfamiliar, but Kurapika felt that he knew him at the same time. There was a stern, almost reprimanding light in the man's eyes, as if he were looking at something he didn't approve of. Kurapika felt confused, and was about to ask where he was, when suddenly, the man spoke.

"Kurapika, I'll tell you one more time," he said, voice harsh and pitiful at the same time, "abandon your quest for revenge. It can only end in more sadness."

The man's eyes were so powerful that Kurapika wanted to tell him that he wasn't looking for any sort of revenge; that, in fact, he had no idea what he was talking about and where he was. He wanted to say all that, and more, but for some odd reason, he simply couldn't open his mouth and force a reply.

He felt himself turning away, _but he didn't _want_ to turn away_, and he felt his legs moving, walking further and further away from the man who had spoken.

He knew that he, this him that was moving without him wanting to move, was not smiling.

"I will have my revenge, master," he heard himself say, but those were not his words. They were not the questions that he wanted to desperately ask, they were not spoken in a tone he was accustomed to using. But it was his voice, melodious but clipped, sharp and logical.

This was him, but he was not in control.

And still he kept walking, further and further away from the only man he had ever seen in his recent dreams.

Suddenly, he was aware that somehow, his eyes were red.

And there was a new weight on his wrist – something cold and metallic, but with a power infused into it that he recognized as his own Nen. But there was something else… he was no longer just Materialization. He was…

… everything…

But that was impossible.

And he needed to, absolutely _needed_ to, move, to look at his wrist, because he knew that there would be something there that was his own. They would not be his katana, but it would be something else, something much more sinister. It would belong to him, and he _needed _to look, to see what it was that this persona had created.

And there was a glance to his wrist, an action that he wished to credit to his efforts, but he knew that would be a lie. This other him, this him with his voice and his body and his thoughts, had glanced at his wrist, and he had simply seen it in the process.

Wrapped around his wrist, and his hand, were chains – horrible links of metal that crawled on his hand like snakes.

The other him glanced away, and he could no longer see the chains. But he could not erase them from his mind – those chains, those horrible chains, had been created by him. They were his chains, a very part of his soul.

And he could no longer picture his trusty, graceful katana.

* * *

Instead, he woke up, and shuddered at the phantom sensation of snakes writhing on his skin.

And apart from the horrible, crawling sensation, he could remember nothing.

* * *

AN

* A lot of speculation on Kurapika's last chain, since its ability hasn't really been revealed yet.

** When Kurapika was talking to his master, it reminded me scarily of Star Wars…


	4. Chapter 4

**Series: **Hunter X Hunter  
**Title: **Persona  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Pairing/ Characters: **Kurapika/Kuroro, some Kurapika/Leorio  
**Word Count: **2009  
**Warning/s: **None.  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

* * *

Fashion had never had much importance in Kurapika's life.

It wasn't that he was naturally a slob; he was meticulous in his habits, and in keeping a clean, orderly life. Fashion had just never been a factor in his life – it was simply not important enough for him to acknowledge.

He didn't have enough time, or patience, to make sure he matched everyday. Or _any _day for that matter.

Kuroro didn't seem to agree with him. Which is why, every month or so, the older man would practically drag Kurapika out with him, on a shopping spree. Kurapika's protests, of course, went unheard when his appearance was at stake.

They had already bought (because Kuroro wouldn't deign to steal from shops so carelessly watched, and it wasn't as if they were poor) several bags of clothing – enough, Kurapika mused, to last him for much longer than simply a month. But Kuroro had no intention of stopping soon, which meant that now, they were window-shopping, with the many bags in tow.

There was a flash in the corner of his eye, and Kurapika stopped dead in the street. He slowly turned his head back to the store display, subconsciously recognizing something he couldn't quite remember.

Feeling his lover halt behind him, Kuroro stopped too, and looked at the younger man with confusion. He followed to his eyes to the display, and almost sighed.

"Kurapika. That is possibly the worst contrast of colors I have ever seen. Please tell me you are not considering buying it," Kuroro said, looking at the article in question.

Kurapika only stared.

"Kurapika… it's a _dress_," Kuroro stressed, when Kurapika would not turn away. "And even if you are considering the issue of cross dressing, that certainly should not be the first dress you own."

Blinking slowly, Kurapika swept his gaze up and down the shirt and skirt. "It looks familiar," he said slowly, drawing out his sentence almost wistfully.

Kuroro's face was now curious, as he looked at it more closely. A few seconds later, and it seemed to click.

"There was a tribe, once, that wore those colors," Kuroro stated, "the Kurata clan, I believe."

At the name of the clan, Kurapika stiffened, almost imperceptibly. He turned to Kuroro with wide eyes. "The Kurata clan?" he whispered, the name rolling off his tongue familiarly, a slight lilt on the second syllable, like the words of a song.

Kuroro nodded, thinking. "There was a mission to it, long ago. You weren't officially a member back then, though, so I have no idea how you'd remember it. But it seemed that those were the official color of the clan – they were the only colors they wore except for white and deep red."

Kurapika whipped his head back to the display, his eyes flickering.

Those colors _belonged_ to him.

Kurapika's hands shook so badly, that it seemed for a moment he would drop the bags. Then, just as suddenly as he had stopped, he turned away, walking quickly.

Kuroro could only stare, worry evident. But there was nothing he could do; Kuroro had never been good at understanding Kurapika, despite their relationship. He could only hope that whatever was plaguing the young man would sort itself out soon.

* * *

"_Our eyes are normally blue, but they become red when we are angry or excited."_

* * *

Of course he had killed before. It was unavoidable in his line of work. He could not remember ever having felt guilty about it. When growing up in a place such as Shooting Star City, it was usually kill or be killed, and Kurapika had always been quite attached to his life.

There was no feeling of regret with killing, not even after the first time. There was no time for regret, after all. Guilt was a liability – something that stood in the way of survival.

Killing was even more practical, in some ways. Senseless killing had never appealed to him; to kill senselessly would be not only time consuming, but a liability in itself: it led to errors, and errors led to execution. But killing to silence, to cover up tracks, was not pointless. He could not be convicted without witnesses. And the dead, curse him as they might, could not speak.

* * *

_Kurapika panted, dodging the massive fist heading for him. The rock that had been behind him a second ago exploded, shattering into a thousand fragments. The giant in front of him was powerful, true to his Reinforcement nature, but that did not detract from his speed in any way. To a normal human, the giant's movements would be no more than a rushed blur, if even that._

_But that was of no real significance. Kurapika was faster still. _

_He would be lying if he said that the fight was simple, that his power was just that much stronger. The outcome had been clear from the beginning, true, but it had been a struggle nonetheless. Kurapika had not expected it to be any less – before him was the strongest member of the Genei Ryodan, after all. He knew, even as he was in the process of becoming what he was now, a wraith with chains, that he would never be able to face down more than one member of the Genei Ryodan at once. Uboguin was his verification. _

_Kurapika would have been a fool to underestimate Uboguin, and even blinded with the cold fury of anger, he was no fool. So Kurapika fought him carefully, gauging his strengths and coldly, methodically calculating the best method of retaliation. It was only a matter of time, then, before Kurapika had Uboguin trapped in a web of chains. _

_Uboguin had refused to answer his questions, despite the Judgment Chain wrapped tightly around his heart. He had died because of it. _

_He should not feel guilt. He knew that if it had been Uboguin who had won, and him dead, Uboguin would feel no guilt. _

_Somehow, Kurapika had managed to get back to the hotel unscathed. It had been a miracle in itself that he hadn't been run over by a car, considering how blank his mind had been. Later that night, he remembered the feeling of blood on his hands, the smell of the hot, metallic liquid that had splattered on his cheek. He had thrown up in the shower, and realized that he was not like them. He was no Spider, and he could not help but feel guilt. _

_But guilt itself would not be enough to stop him._

_As the vomit was rinsed down the drain, the stains on his hands remained, as vivid as the moment they had first appeared. It was then that he realized that this was only the beginning. _

_But it was too late now. _

_He was not a miracle worker – he couldn't turn back time and make everything right. He could no longer stop. _

* * *

The serpentine chains around his wrist no longer felt like an intrusion. They had become familiar – a comforting weight that seemed to calm him with its cold certainty.

Somehow, within a dream, they had become more reassuringly powerful than his kan had ever been. Kurapika knew that they held a potential that he would have never been able to reach as a simple Materialization user – that they were a manifestation of a still greater power inside of himself.

His body moved – not by his will, but not against it either. The chains flashed in front of him, weaving a familiar pattern. His feet dodged, jumped, and it almost seemed as if he were dancing. But Kurapika knew this dance, had danced it without a puppeteer moving his feet, dictating his actions, as one did now.

This was the dance performed right before someone died.

There was a flurry of motion, and Kurapika felt his arm jerk up, his chain connecting to something solid.

A wave of emotion, almost physical in its strength, rolled across him, and he knew that this was it. The end of someone. Kurapika felt his heart constrict, and knew with absolute certainty that his eyes were crimson.

His chain lunged forward, _by his command?,_ and dug deep into iron flesh made butter by his weapon of choice. Kurapika could _feel_ it – muscle tearing, ligaments peeling, bone cracking, until finally, the chain wrapped around the heart, and there was the feeling of a deep, resonant thudding that was the knell of a funeral bell…

And never before had he held life in the palm of his hands in such a literal manner. Never before did it pulse, pulling him in, deeper, reminding him that there was something at the core of a human that could not be replicated.

The sharp point plunged into the heart, and it was too _intimate_, this method of killing. He could feel it still, the muscle, trying futilely to fight, to continue beating, and for a moment, it spasmed wildly before finally stilling…

Kurapika looked up into a face too familiar to be true.

As Uboguin died, Kurapika felt guilty for killing a man for the first time in his life.

* * *

_It was not the most efficient method of killing by far._

_There was no reason, really, for his weapon to be a chain. It would have been much more clinical with a gun, or even a sword. They were quick – unlike the tantalizing links of a chain. A chain was slow, tortuous, messy. _

_He had been morbid when he had chosen it. _

_Of course he told himself that he chose a chain because the Ryodan deserved it – that Kuroro Lucifer deserved to be chained like the criminal he was. It was logical when he told himself that – it was logical and ironic. _

_But it wasn't true. It wasn't true, and he knew it deep down in his heart. He did not care for justice so much as he claimed to. _

_He wanted them to bleed – to hurt. _

_But then came the time for the actual deed to be done, and it was… _different_. There was something wrong with the equation, something that Kurapika had not counted on to show up. He told himself that it didn't matter, that he didn't care if he killed the Ryodan, but there was a force holding him back. _

_He could not imagine that he still had a conscience._

_But then there had been Uboguin, and suddenly, he wished he had not chosen a chain. He wanted a sword, then, or maybe a gun, instead. _

_He knew that it wouldn't be as bad with a different weapon – he wouldn't be able to feel the pulse of the victim's heart before they died with a different weapon. _

_With a different weapon, he did not have to be reminded that they were human, too. _

* * *

He woke up slowly, his eyes clenched tight. There was the feeling of the conscious world, swarming his senses stronger every moment, but _he could not wake up_. He needed to stop, to remember before he forgot, because there was a stir in his heart that told him that this time, it was too _important_.

He fought with reality, but in the end, could not remember anything but Uboguin's face, and the feeling of blood on his hands.

The phone rang, and somewhere, Kuroro picked it up.

There was a deep silence then._ Shalnark must be at the other end of the phone_, Kurapika thought, _Shalnark's the only one that Kuroro listens to so intently. Shalnark's always the one to tell the bad news. _

And with that simple thought, Kurapika knew that the news was going to be unpleasant. That this silence was longer, heavier, more stifling. That… someone…

Opening his eyes frantically, Kurapika sat up and looked at Kuroro. Their eyes locked, and Kurapika forgot how to breathe.

Someone… Uboguin…

Kurapika did not want to know, but he already knew. Memory was the cruelest thing of all.

Uboguin was dead.

Quietly, Kurapika stood, and locked himself in the bathroom. And he knew, with a dreadful certainty, that Pakunoda would be next.


	5. Chapter 5

**Series: **Hunter X Hunter  
**Title: **Persona  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Pairing/ Characters: **Kurapika/Kuroro, some Kurapika/Leorio  
**Word Count: **1838  
**Warning/s: **None.  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

* * *

Two weeks after Uboguin's death, and Kurapika could almost forget the tight constricting he had felt in his chest when Shalnark called not long ago. He had not heard Shalnark confirm it, although he could have easily if he had so wished. Kuroro was silent as well, but his eyes spoke volumes…

A heart attack. Kurapika wasn't sure how he knew, but it was clear to him that it couldn't be anything else. After all he was sure there had been no outward wounds…

_But how do I know?_ he wondered, because he had never seen the body.

_Because_, something inside of him answered, _a heart attack is what happens when the heart itself it torn into shreds_.

* * *

_Is it my fault?_

* * *

_Do you want to hear a story?_ a voice asked, resonating in the air around him.

_I don't understand_, he thought, and felt like a fool.

_Do you want to hear a story?_

There was no time for a story, there was no time in this place because he wasn't awake, and he would _forget_…

_I don't want to forget anymore,_ Kurapika plead in his thoughts. _Please, let me remember for once._

Something in the air shimmers, and Kurapika breathes it in, out. It feels like pity, he realizes, and knows that it's for him. That he is the only one to be pitied in this situation – this situation of death and hopelessness and fear. Of forced amnesia.

_Let me tell you a story._

Kurapika closed his eyes, because it wasn't him anymore who was the focus of this place. Quite subtly, it had shifted, changed, become the dream of someone else. It wasn't his story to tell. It was not, perhaps, even his place to listen. But there was the voice again, soothing in its control.

A familiar voice.

_Once upon a time there was a child. He was still very young, not even eight years old. This boy was part of a tribe – the Kurata clan. He was not the youngest child in the village, nor the oldest, nor the smartest. But he was the luckiest. Because one day, his mother boarded him into his cellar, as above him a band of thieves visited the clan and massacred all of the inhabitants except for the young child. Doubtlessly, they would have killed him as well, had they known of his existence. _

"Stop," Kurapika whispered, and it was the first time he had spoken out loud. The first time he had been allowed to. "I don't understand. Stop."

_The thieves weren't there for supplies, or money, or power. You see, they were much too sick to take something so mundane – and the richness of the Kurata clan did not lie in possessions, or gold. For the Kurata clan held something that no other population had on the planet: a hue impossible to replicate in it intensity, its fiery intent. Because when the Kurata are angry, their eyes glow the color of blood. _

"Why are you telling me this?"

_They say that color is one of the most beautiful things on Earth._

"Who are you?"

_But the child did not think so. He thought it was disgusting, and from this a deep feeling of hatred was bourn. It was not hard to dedicate himself only to revenge. After all, he had nothing else to live for. The bandits had made sure to kill everyone that had ever mattered to him. _

"Tell me who you are," Kurapika demanded, and was ashamed to realize that as he spoke, his voice wavered with uncertainty.

The air thickened, _congealed_. For a moment, something solid shimmered in front of him, and Kurapika squinted trying to see, to make out…

_Do you still not understand?_ the voice mocked.

_I am that child. _

* * *

Kuroro looked to his side, worry written in every line of his face. Kurapika was there, tangled in the sheets, turning his head this direction and that, wildly. A nightmare, Kuroro knew, and moves quickly, his hands finding Kurapika's shoulders.

A gentle shake. "Kurapika," he says, "Kurapika, wake up."

Kurapika whimpers, and Kuroro sees a light sheen of sweat covering his chest. Wonders what could scare his lover in such a way – Kurapika was not prone to nightmares, even as a child.

The tattoo spider on Kurapika's chest catches Kuroro's eye as he shakes Kurapika, a spot of dark color against pale skin.

Kurapika doesn't wake up, but he quiets, terrified whimpers subsiding. His breathing calming down to a normal rate, he sleeps.

Kuroro eyes him warily, and as he settles Kurapika gently down on the bed once more, the tattoo catches his eye again. The lines of it were elegant, just as they were the day Kurapika had first gotten it. The blood red four in the middle of it was slightly slanted, stylized, to look like an hourglass.

A vision to remind enemies, Kuroro thinks, that they were running out of time.

He squints at it, suddenly. _It must be the light_, Kuroro thinks, _the moon is playing tricks on me_.

He knew, after all, that the ink of the spider's body was a black darker than midnight, the same hue as his eyes. He had been there, after all, when Kurapika had timidly asked the artist to make it so, a slight blush on his face. _Just the moonlight_, he reassures himself, that makes the tattoo look more of a dark shade of gray instead of the black that it surely was.

His mind boots him back, to a month ago, when Kurapika had stood in the bathroom, eyes full of uncertainty and worry.

_Does it look lighter to you? _Kurapika's voice asks him, in the memory.

Kuroro blinks, pushes it out of his mind. Pulls the covers over them both, _for warmth_, he tells himself, making sure to cover the tattoo.

* * *

Kurapika sat at the kitchen table, his eyes dull. A mug of coffee in front of him, filled to the brim.

Just as the previous two cups had been.

Kuroro walks in the kitchen, and asks him something. Kurapika barely hears him, raises his eyes to meet Kuroro's a good five seconds after the question's been asked.

"What?" Kurapika asks, knows he looks and sounds a mess. His voice is a slur, and he wonders vaguely when the caffeine's going to kick in.

"I asked you if you were alright," Kuroro repeats, slower, and even in this state, Kurapika can head the worry in his tone, "you were having nightmares last night."

"I'm fine," Kurapika says automatically, although it was obviously untrue, the standard answer for whenever someone asks 'how are you?'. "I'm just not sleeping well as of late." Raises the mug to his lips, thankful for not missing, and takes a gulp of the coffee.

Kuroro gives him and his mug a wary look. "And of course, you're drinking coffee in order to be able to get to sleep better."

Kurapika shrugs, over his mug. "I'm getting enough sleep," he says, "you know that. It's just not good sleep." This answer, of course, Kuroro notes, doesn't answer his non-question, but looking at Kurapika, the heavy bags under his eyes and the pale pallor of his skin, he can't bring himself to push for answers.

"You don't look well," Kuroro replies, and both of them are struck by how much of an understatement that actually is. "You should get some rest – I can go meet with the others without you."

Kurapika looks as though if he wants to argue, but the both of them know that he's too tired to put up a good, reasonable argument. Kurapika nods, then, as Kuroro rummages for his coat in the hall closet, takes another sip of coffee. "I'll be back before dinner," Kuroro says, as way of farewell, shutting and locking the apartment door behind him.

Kurapika throws back his head, finishes his coffee in a couple more gulps, wincing. He had never liked the stuff, really: he much preferred tea. He walks the mug over to the sink, rinses it out before setting it in the sink. Walking into the living room, his world begins to blur.

_No_, Kurapika thinks, tries, to keep his eyes open. _Leave me alone_, he thinks before he can process the thought – then wonders who he wants to leave him alone.

He's stumbling now, over imaginary objects, tugs in the carpet and imperfections in the floor which don't actually exist. He makes it to the couch somehow, and collapses. He thinks of three cups of coffee, and how all of this is so completely unfair.

_You have no idea_, he hears himself think, and knows at the same time that it is not his thought. _You have no idea how unfair all of this is_.

Kurapika's eyes clamp shut, as if weighted down.

And he dreams.

* * *

_This is how it's supposed to be_, a voice whispers to him, and Kurapika opens his eyes.

Pakunoda's standing in front of him, but there's something wrong. Pakunoda's never looked at him in this way before, with the grudging hatred and disgust she usually reserved for rapists and politicians. There are two children beside him, both of them too serious, too reserved, for children of their age.

The him in control of his body, in this place, looks at the children intently, and Kurapika knows what he's doing. Checking them over for injuries, looking for an excuse.

_An excuse for what?_ Kurapika wonders, as the him in this time seems satisfied that the boys are relatively unhurt. _He_ stands up, looks at where Pakunoda once stood, and she is gone.

Kurapika's hand tingles, and he tries to breathe. There's something more to this, he realizes, something there heavier than the actual chains wrapped around his hand. There's a pulse, a heartbeat.

_Pakunoda_, the voice whispers to him, _it's her heartbeat. This is the feeling of holding life in your hands. _

Another time, suddenly, and he is in a fever sleep.

_She broke the restriction_, the voice says, and Kurapika can almost imagine sadness there, _and of course, she paid the consequences_. _It was an underestimation on my part – I had thought that she would value her life more than she valued Lucifer's. _

His hand jerks, suddenly, and Kurapika can't breathe. He feels a part of him, the part manifested in nen and chains, extend for a wrenching moment, with a wrenching movement, and tear. It comes back to him when it's done, and the weight of a heart in his hands is gone.

_She's dead_, the voice says to him, and whatever imagined sadness there had been a moment ago is completely washed away.

Kurapika's heart beats wildly in his chest.

_No_, he thinks, _it's not true_. Something sighs in his ear, tugs on him, removing him from this place, this scene, this memory that is not his own. He sees pale hand, slender fingers a shade grayer than his own, reach for his hand.

And his world is white.


	6. Chapter 6

**Series: **Hunter X Hunter  
**Title: **Persona  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Pairing/ Characters: **Kurapika/Kuroro, some Kurapika/Leorio  
**Word Count: **2013  
**Warning/s: **None.  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

* * *

There was a pool, glistening silver, scintillating even in the dim half-light of this hazy place.

_I've been here before_, Kurapika thought, and was surprised to hear an answer.

"It's a bridge – a crossover between worlds," someone spoke from behind him. Kurapika froze – a chord in him having been struck as terribly, terribly wrong. "You haven't been here before, not really, but I have, and that's why you remember it." The voice was not only familiar… it was…

Kurapika swung around, senses singing. He wasn't quite sure what it was that horrified him so until he saw it – and looked into its eyes.

It was him.

Before him was a perfect replica of himself – the same image that he met every morning when looking into a mirror. They had the same face, the high cheekbones, the perky lips, the slightly slanted oblong eyes. They were the same – but different at the same time. The vision before him was slightly… blurry, and Kurapika had the feeling it wasn't simply distortion caused by the fog. His reflection had slightly longer hair, and wore an earring from his left ear, dressed in the colors Kurapika had seen in a store's display window not long ago. And somehow… he seemed… muted. Grayer, like a shadow. His colors weren't as alive as Kurapika's – his hair was too pale, his skin too pallid. But none of this was what had Kurapika terrified – they weren't what had stolen Kurapika's breath away and forced his thoughts into an endless loop….

The shadow in front of him was not completely muted in his colors. His eyes held the only vibrancy in this entire being.

They were blood red.

* * *

_He had not been aware of the consequences when he had first decided to destroy Kuroro Lucifer at any cost. He only knew that it would be impossible there, in his world, because he had already made a fatal flaw in his approach. He had let members of the Ryodan close to him – close enough to know of his abilities. And he had let them live._

_He had lost the element of surprise. And he wasn't egotistical enough to believe that he could win against a man of Kuroro Lucifer's ability without at least surprise in his favor. _

_But mistakes could be fixed – they could _always_ be fixed – at a certain price of course. He needed something that would render Pakunoda's sacrifice moot. Kurapika had spent the ten months after the Yorkshin incident researching the methods, and finally, it seemed as if though it had paid off. _

_There had been many choices, but most of them had been either too risky or just plain foolish. The one he finally selected was one that would definitely work – but to an unknown extent. _

_When Kurapika had first stumbled upon it, it had seemed as ridiculous as the others – perhaps even more so. It had seemed too far-fetched – too impossible to actually work. It was in itself based only on a _theory_. _

_It was based on the assumption of alternate dimensions, all existing for different individuals. It meant that he, Kurapika, had a thousand, a million different possibilities based on what circumstances he was placed in. And he wasn't the only one – every person had these different possibilities, in different dimensions. The worlds were molded around each _individual_, not the other way around. _

_The thought had made him angry at first – he could not stand the idea that his clan had been massacred and their eyes plundered because it had simply been _his_ fate this time around. It burned at his heart to know that perhaps, in a different dimension, the Spiders did not exist and he had grown up happily in his clan, surrounded by his family and loved ones. That he could be so thoughtlessly _happy_ somewhere. _

_He had pushed the offending book away, and left it to gather dust for another four weeks before picking it up and considering it. _

_It was not a fool proof method. He had almost no power in which dimension he landed it – only two requirements allowed, one specific and the other one broad. It would mean giving up the life he currently had, though admittedly that had not been much of a consideration. It required a great price in Nen, although unlike other methods, it did not permanently seal it. He would not be able to even choose what _time_ to land in, and was only guaranteed for it to be one in which he was still alive and in good health. Most importantly, he would not have a body of his own, but would have to inhabit the one with the alternate _him_. It was uncertain as to whether he would gain control of the body – it was from then on only a matter of will. _

_But, of course, he did not doubt his own will. _

_But it provided what so many of the other methods did not: an opportunity and all of his memories intact. _

_In the end, it was the most practical despite all of its loopholes. _

_He did not waste time saying goodbyes – not even to Gon, Killua and Leorio. After all, according to the theory, if the world was molded around him, when he ceased to exist, wouldn't it, and everyone in it, cease to exist as well?_

_Even _Leorio_…_

_He made the decision at dawn. The stage was set for the ritual by late afternoon. _

"_A dimension in which the Spiders exist and are unaware of my abilities," he spoke, and the binding began. The first restriction was absolutely necessary for what needed to be done, but the second… _

_The second restriction was purely human in its selfishness. Kurapika needed his soon to be alter ego to be weaker, so that he would be able to take control upon arriving. And perhaps he was too bitter to care, or to really think, about what that would mean. _

"_And I want it to be a dimension," he stated, clearly, coldly, "in which my alternate is happy." _

_Kurapika would not lose. _

* * *

"I thought," the shadow said, voice deceptively calm, "that I would be prepared for anything. That no matter what dimension I landed in, it would not be so great a shock."

Kurapika, the Kurapika that was clear and bright, with eyes the color of the sea, only stood, frozen by the memories that his shadow had _allowed_ him to see.

"But how could I prepare for this?" the shadow asked, shaking his head, sadly, but with anger in his eyes.

"How could you fall in love with Kuroro Lucifer?"

* * *

Kurapika woke up, and for the first time, he _remembered_.

* * *

_It is not a happy moment when you realize that your life is forfeit, and that you love nothing more than death. _

* * *

He hears the turn of the key in the lock, and his head whips around to stare at the door in his anxiety and paranoia. For a moment, he imagines that it is _him_, the ghost with the red eyes, turning the lock, invading his waking moments as effortlessly as he had invaded his dreams.

Kurapika wonders if it's possible, and remembers the pain and hate he had felt radiating off of _him_. And then he begins to wonder what _isn't_ possible when a person is that driven, that blinded by revenge. He wonders how long he has before this reality is no longer his – no longer belongs to him, but belongs to the other one, the one who has crossed dimensions in his hatred.

There is a heaviness around his right hand, and Kurapika winces because he knows what has happened. It is another reminder of how much he's been eclipsed by this invader, about how much of him has already undergone this forced change. A writhing like snakes – endless miles and miles of chains, dancing to life. And he knows how to use them.

Kuroro walks though the door, and as Kurapika relaxes his guard, a still deeper part of him screams. Snarls at him to raise his hand, to attack. To rip this man in front of him, this man who he had loved for so long, into shreds for what he has done.

_No,_ Kurapika thinks, firmly, and for now, it is enough. The shadow inside of him growls, retreating all of the same, to deeper parts where it lurks.

Kurapika wonders when it will surface, again, and knows that whenever it may be, it will be too soon.

Kuroro turns to him, and he knows the image he must make. Crouched on the couch, poised like something wild, about to spring. The fear in his eyes making him look hysterical. Chains that rattle like death wrapped so tightly around his hand that some small detached part of himself wonders how he can still feel his fingers.

"Kurapika," Kuroro says, and seems at a loss from there.

Kurapika takes deep breaths, willing his chains to retract, to come into himself again. _They won't obey your command_, _he_ whispers from his corner in Kurapika's consciousness.

_Of course not_, Kurapika realizes, looking down at his hand. He looks up, into Kuroro's eyes, the whisper of a wraith still echoing in his mind. Sees, for a moment, not the man he trusted with his life, but the man that has ruined so many.

(_Kurapika doesn't know how the fire started, but with all of the inhabitants of his village dead, it was no surprise that it went unchecked. He's locked in the cellar still, and surely, he will die there, choking on the ashes of the ones he loves._

_He needs to get out, to escape._

_But what is the point? He knows with a certainty, even then, as a child, that there is no escape, not anymore. Not from himself._)

Kuroro blinks, shocked. But what had been there, if it had even existed in the first place, was gone. It was impossible anyways – probably just a trick of the light. Just a play on his imagination, as the fading tattoo had been by the light of the moon.

But for a moment, he could have sworn that Kurapika's eyes glowed red.

* * *

Later still, they're in the bedroom.

Kuroro wraps his arms around Kurapika's form tightly, and he wonders how he's going to say this. Even now, before he's said anything, he can feel the younger man's shoulders shaking slightly, with some inner torment that he has yet to reveal.

And Kuroro knows better than to push him. Kurapika's always been stubborn, refusing to acknowledge his problems, even when they're very real, as more than he can handle. He was proud – too proud at times. And he would never let even Kuroro in until he absolutely had to – until there was no other option. But for now, there was nothing Kuroro could do, apart from hold him. Reassure him that everything would be alright.

But not everything was alright. Kuroro frowned, knowing that it would need to be said, and soon.

Now.

"Kurapika," he starts, not sure how he's going to say what he knows must be said, "something happened today during my meeting with the Spiders."

He feels Kurapika stir in his arms, the blonde's shoulders tensing. He knew that tone of voice – it was not good news. "What?" Kurapika finds himself asking, although he had a feeling that he already knew the answer.

"Pakunoda had a heart attack," Kuroro says, and there is genuine grief in his voice. Kurapika knows that if he were to look up, there would be tears spilling silently out of the older man's eyes for the loss of one of his own. "It was…" here Kuroro trails off, "nen induced, we believe, considering the similar nature of Uboguin's recent death. There is a good chance that the Ryodan's being targeted by a powerful nen-user."

Kurapika is silent, his form frozen. He thinks of red eyes, and of how hatred has no bounds.

"Kurapika?" he hears Kuroro ask, but the blonde can't bring himself to say a single thing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Series: **Hunter X Hunter  
**Title: **Persona  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Pairing/ Characters: **Kurapika/Kuroro, some Kurapika/Leorio  
**Word Count: **1871  
**Warning/s: **None.  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

* * *

Hands, and arms, snaking around him, softly cradling. Relaxing him, almost making him forget what he could finally remember. It was his brand of comfort, Kurapika knew. It was Kuroro's way of saying _'I love you' _and _'don't be afraid'._

It was not new. Kuroro had comforted him before, those few times when he woke up shaking from terrors he could only half recall. It was not a shameful act – Kurapika knew Kuroro did not see him as _weaker_, simply because he had certain weak moments. It was how people were, and even Ryodan members were human, when it came down to it.

So Kurapika would turn to Kuroro and accept the comfort that was offered. Slowly, he would let the tremors in his body fade away into the warmth…

This, Kurapika knew, was a moment. A moment among thousands, millions of moments that simply related, bended, tangled with other moments until it was not simply a moment but a memory.

And Kurapika breathed in a scent that could really only be described as distinctly _Kuroro_, and knew that despite what the other _him_, what that _shadow_, said to him, he was safe. Kuroro would never let harm come to either of them.

_Won't he? _a voice asks him, and he wonders if it's his own self-doubt creeping to the surface, or the sinister voice of a doppelganger.

He shakes it off. This was _their _moment, his and Kuroro's, and none could trespass. Kurapika felt a wave of emotion sweep over him, brushing him in its wake, and it was _sacred_.

Kurapika loved him. Kurapika loved him _so _much…

"Leorio," Kurapika whispered, and the spell was broken.

* * *

Kuroro tensed, and did not understand.

_That's alright_, the 'other' Kurapika mused, watching from a place that could not possibly exist.

_A person like you was never meant to understand_.

* * *

"Leorio," Kurapika whispered, and the spell was broken. But if the blond realized his mistake, he did not give any sign of it. Kurapika only moved deeper into Kuroro's arms, burying himself from the world.

If Kuroro noticed, it was only in the momentary tensing of the arms, barely perceptible even if it was deliberately sought. It was as if he _froze_ for a moment, his breath halted and his eyelids fluttered, because it wasn't _his _name that Kurapika whispered with such adoration…

It was only a moment, one that Kuroro simply would _not_ allow his brain to register.

And Kurapika snuggled deeper.

* * *

There was no morning after.

When Kurapika awoke, it was not to the soot black eyes of the man he loved. Kurapika opened his eyes to a vacant spot where his lover would be if only…

It was too early in the morning to figure anything out.

There was a tie here, he realized, a tie with the voices inside his head, and the dreams of a mirror. Somehow, those blood red eyes and the colors that _belonged_ to him, and his sudden aversion to spiders, and the loss of his Nen to be replaced by something that didn't _belong_ to him.

All of it had to come together.

But there was never such a useless endeavor.

It was, after all, too early in the morning to figure anything out.

He drops back into sleep. He's in the place again, the crossroads in between worlds, and he's not surprised to see _him_ there, sitting by the pool.

"Why are you looking into it?" Kurapika asks, but that's not the real question he has. Not what he desperately needs to know.

"It shows me what's happening in the other time," the wraith answers, and Kurapika is mildly surprised. He had expected to be ignored, at the best.

He walks up to himself, the him in shades of gray. Regards him for a moment, and looks at the pool, over _his_ shoulder. And sees.

A man, sitting at a desk. Obviously very intently reading the book in front of him – in fact, his desk was little more than a cluster of books and precarious piles of loose-leaved paper. He was not a handsome man, not by far, but there was an intensity written in the lines of his face, an honesty that was apparent even through this pale reflection. There is a striped tie around his neck – Kurapika has a feeling that he doesn't go without it very often. Not even in this relaxed setting. Kurapika watches as he sighs, putting down the book for a moment, pulls his arms above his head and stretches. He glances at his cell phone – with an obvious longing.

"I told him," the other him sighs, blinking his blood red eyes, "that he should organize his papers better."

Kurapika doesn't let his eyes leave him – has a feeling that this is important, whatever it is. "Who is he?" he asks, finally, when they've both lapsed into the silence of contemplation.

"His name," the wraith replies, in his own voice, "is Leorio."

And Kurapika turns to the one who spoke, looks into the eyes so raptly focused on something else. And understands, just a little more. "Can you go back?" Kurapika asks, because that's what he's here for, although it's not the question he wants to ask. He knows the answer, already, after all.

"No," _he_ says, and there is a tone of regret in _his_ voice. "I would be able to travel back, maybe, but I'm sure that my body's perished by now, abandoned with no one to take care of it. I would have nothing to inhabit."

_He_ sighs, again, and touches his hand to the water, swiping it gently across the surface. The image of the man, Leorio, disappears and the pool is the silver of a mirror once again. "That," _he_ says, turning to face Kurapika completely, "isn't what you want to ask me, though, is it?"

Of course it wasn't, Kurapika thought, and of course _he_ would know. "You've already killed two of us," and Kurapika feels a sense of satisfaction when _he_ winces at his choice of pronouns, "who's next?"

_He _shrugs, as if they're talking about the weather. "I killed Uboguin first, and Pakunoda second because that was the order of things – how it had been done once before. How I killed them in my world." Kurapika feels a dull sadness at his heart, knows that it isn't his feeling, but that of the wraith he was facing. Kurapika, after all, felt no guilt at death – not like the one who has crossed dimensions.

"You regret it," Kurapika states, and is surprised at the own calm in his voice.

The other him looks at him, almost surprised. "No. I don't regret killing them – it is, after all, what I set out to do. But I wasn't a killer then, not yet – I couldn't face what I had done without a sense of guilt. I no longer have the same weakness. But of course," the other him jabs at him ruthlessly, "you wouldn't be able to understand a thing such as guilt."

It would have hurt Kurapika, had it not been so true.

"They were the only one's I managed to kill. Pakunoda managed to surprise me, in the end, through a sacrifice I didn't believe her capable of making. She didn't have the same opportunity this time, in this world. What I do from here is yet to be determined," the other him finishes off, his eyes boring into Kurapika's.

Kurapika stares back into the red, and hears himself speak with more confidence than he feels. "You haven't answered the question. Tell me."

"I will do what is logical. Considering your," here, _his_ upper lip curled into a snarl, "current position, it will be easiest to get to Kuroro Lucifer. Not to mention that despite what he may say about a Spider being able to live without its head, it will still be significantly weakened."

Kurapika feels his heart constrict, his eyes widen in fear.

"Please – " he starts to say, but even then, he knows that it's too late. He blinks and when his eyes are open again, he's no longer there, at the side of a silver pool, but in his bed once more.

"-don't," he finishes, to an empty room, an absent audience. "Please, please don't."

* * *

Kuroro returns to find Kurapika still in the bed, his head cradled in his arms. The blonde doesn't give an indication that he knows that Kuroro's back, but Kuroro knows that he must have sensed it by now. He doesn't jump when Kuroro moves up, behind him, and pulls his unresisting form into an embrace.

"What is it?" Kuroro asks, now, because there's no longer any avoiding it. Because this is the breaking point, and he can tell.

"I don't know myself anymore," Kurapika says, and his voice is oddly whole for words so broken. "I don't know what I'm capable of – what I might do."

"I don't understand," Kuroro says, and Kurapika unfolds. He turns to Kuroro, his eyes wild.

"Don't let him win," Kurapika says, "don't ever let him win."

Kuroro's heart is in his throat. "Who?" he asks, his mind running rampant. This was new, but in such close conjunction to Pakunoda's death, it could not be a mere coincidence. This was the nen-user, perhaps, and Kuroro needs to know what it means, if Kurapika's in danger.

Kurapika's voice is small, his shoulders sag. "Me," he says, and now, his voice is broken.

And slowly, Kurapika raises his hands to cup Kuroro's face. "I have red eyes," he says, as if it cleared things up. As if with those words, Kuroro would understand. "And so much hatred that it's overflowing my body."

"I don't understand," Kuroro repeats, but Kurapika's shaking his head, sadly now.

Lowers Kuroro's face to his own, kisses him tenderly: a chaste kiss.

"I still have time," Kurapika whispers, "but not much more." Kurapika's hands move deftly, quickly, working at buttons. He lowers his mouth to Kuroro's neck, trailing kisses down his chest.

Kuroro feels his eyes flutter; he still doesn't understand. He considers, for a moment, stopping the blonde – forcing the answer from him, but he knows that this situation, whatever it may be, was out of his control. That this was Kurapika's battle, and that he could not intrude upon it.

Kurapika touches Kuroro's pale, perfect skin, sees his own against him. A perfect complement of colors, he thinks, moving over the older man.

"I love you," he whispers to Kuroro, running his fingers through hair darker than midnight.

Caresses him and wonders it will be the last time.

Hours later, Kurapika's standing in the bathroom, shirtless. Where there had once been the tattoo was pale, smooth skin.

And without any explanation as to how it was possible, Kurapika knew it had been erased, and that he was no longer part of the Ryodan.

_But it's impossible_, Kurapika thought, _how can I just _not_ be part of the Ryodan?_

_Anything can be erased,_ a voice replied, and it was _him_. _Anything can be erased, he_ repeated, and Kurapika felt a tingling sensation where the tattoo was. _Even this._

A dry chuckle, reminiscent of cracking leaves and breaking bones. _Even love._


	8. Chapter 8

**Series: **Hunter X Hunter  
**Title: **Persona  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Pairing/ Characters: **Kurapika/Kuroro, some Kurapika/Leorio  
**Word Count: **2092  
**Warning/s: **None.  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

* * *

He needed to be quick – Kurapika knew, as he threw together a bag. A change of clothes, a bit of money. Enough for a one way ticket to somewhere.

Kuroro was still in the bedroom, sleeping. _It's better this way_, Kurapika thinks, as his hand rests on the doorknob, a sudden wave of sadness washing over him. It would be better for them both for him to leave now.

The links of the chains on his hand clink as he moves it, turning the knob, and he knows that he doesn't have much time. That, perhaps, he's wasted too much time already, tonight. That the next time he wakes up, he won't be the one in control.

If he stays here, he doesn't know what will happen. He knows what the other one, inside of him, is capable of doing – has seen it, felt it. There was hesitation in _him_ before, once upon a time, when he had to kill now _he_ knew what it was like, to take a life. _He _will no longer feel the same heaviness guilt brings, not when it comes to destroying the Spider. Kurapika knows this about _him_ just as well as if he were talking about himself – in a way, he is. And Kurapika knows he will do anything, absolutely anything, to keep Kuroro from being hurt.

And in this case, 'anything' was putting as much distance between himself and the man he loved as possible in the four or five hours he would be able to resist the pull of the wraith, who, even now, called alluringly for him to sleep.

He makes it to the airport in less than half an hour – buys an one-way ticket to the furthest, most remote destination that he sees listed in the schedule. He notes, in grim satisfaction, that he doesn't have enough money left to buy a ticket to come back.

But, of course, he doesn't intend to come back. Not until he has more of a grasp on what's going on, and how to stop it.

He's sitting at a table, now, sipping at a cup of tea. There are still a few moments before the plane starts boarding, and Kurapika wonders, a dull ache at his heart, whether Kuroro's awake yet. If he's in bed, alone and confused. If in moments he will go into a wild-eyed panic as he realizes that Kurapika's no longer in the apartment, that Kurapika's travelling bag is gone as well.

Kurapika wonders if Kuroro will feel abandoned.

_Better abandoned than dead_, Kurapika thinks grimly, because _he_ is not a force to be underestimated.

A computerized voice announces happily that his plane will begin boarding now, and would all passengers please have their boarding passes and identification in hand. Kurapika rummages for his identification card: fake, of course; he didn't want to be tracked, after all. He stands up, pushes the chair back into place. Tugs his cell phone out of his pocket, and leaves it on the table.

Moments later, he's on the plane. He doesn't relax until he feels the airplane take off, it's wheels leaving the runway. Then, finally, his shoulders sag in relief. It's all he can do, after all, and for now, at least, he has won.

He falls asleep on the plane, knowing that at least for now, Kuroro is safe.

* * *

"You're a fool," _he _says, and Kurapika turns to face him. "Do you really think that something as small, as insubstantial as this, will stop me?"

Kurapika sighs, feeling heavy. "No," he says, truthfully, "of course not. This is just to buy time. You know that I can't fight you, not really. I have to sleep, after all."

The other one laughs in contempt. "And this is your way of fighting back? By not fighting at all, instead choosing to simply run away?"

Kurapika falls silent, knowing that it's a coward's move. But what else could he do? There was no other solution that presented itself neatly in his mind, apart from suicide. And he wasn't willing to part with his life, not quite yet. Not until there was no option left – until it came down to his life or Kuroro's.

The doppelganger walks up to him, lifts gray fingers to brush at Kurapika's hair. "You're weak," _he _says, loathing and pity entwined in his voice.

_I am _not, Kurapika thinks. _You're just too strong_.

But their thoughts were one, and it didn't matter if Kurapika did not speak his words out loud. _He _heard him, although Kurapika was completely silent.

"It's because you've never had to fight before," the wisp of a man in front of him says, and there was in his eyes a raw pain that Kurapika could not place. A pain rooted in corpses without eyes – a pain that he had witnessed but would never truly understand. "Not really. You've always had them, had _him_ to look out for you, to guard your back. You may have been born in Shooting Star City, but you were never really truly alone."

"That's why, isn't it," and it dawns on Kurapika suddenly, as it should have done a day ago, when he had first been able to remember. "That's the reason for your second restriction – the reason you wanted to be transported to a world in which I am happy. Because happiness is the root-rot of strength; after all, why reach for something when you're already content with what you have?"

The gray face in front of doesn't so much as twitch, but Kurapika knows that he's right. That this is the selfishness hatred has reduced this shadow of a man to – that he would prey on the happy so to ruin their lives, his own life, to get at his revenge.

"I don't regret it," the shadow says, "I might have, if I had landed in a different dimension, with you under different circumstances. But here, you're in love with a man you should hate," _his_ voice turns bitter, acrid, "and I am simply putting things right."

"This," Kurapika grinds out, bitterly, "is not right."

* * *

Kurapika wakes up and knows immediately that something is very wrong.

First of all, he's no longer on the plane. Instead he's on a bed with pastel sheets, which smell like rough soap and mothballs. It takes only a quick glance to the pale, pointless art on the walls for him to realize that he's in a motel room.

He doesn't remember this. Any of this. He doesn't remember getting off the plane, doesn't remember getting a room. Doesn't know, for that matter, which city he was in – _he_ would have possibly had enough time to render some of his efforts pointless. Perhaps he was already back in Shooting Star City.

Perhaps Kuroro is already dead.

Kurapika panics.

He rummages furiously at the bedside table, finally pulls out a few napkins with the address of the hotel printed on them. He lets out a small sigh – he is where he intended to go. It seemed as if, for the time being, _he_ had simply gotten off the plane checked them into a motel. It was still a terrifying thought, for the other to be able to control his body so easily, without Kurapika even being aware of it, but at least now Kurapika was relatively certain that he hadn't done something irreversible.

Kurapika glances at the clock; it's eight twenty three.

He doesn't look away. He squints at the corner of the screen, where the date appears.

It's August fourth. Two days after he must have stepped off the plane.

A pounding at his door jolts him out of it before he can give much time to the thought. Kurapika jumps, as with every second, the knocking gets louder. He stumbles over himself in his attempt to get to the door, pulls open the locks and turns the knob.

His heart drops as sees Kuroro, standing in front of him, worry written in his face, his actions, his very nature.

"Kurapika!" Kuroro exclaims, voice tight with anxiety, "I got here as soon as I could. You sounded odd on the phone, and then you wouldn't pick up when I tried calling back," Kuroro rushes, his hands already on Kurapika's shoulders. His eyes search Kurapika's face, and finds it drained of all color.

Kurapika finds himself incapable of forming words. Looks up at Kuroro. The silly, caring little fool, rushing here at his lover's beck and call. Of course _he_ hadn't needed to get back to Shooting Star City, not when _he_ could simply call Kuroro to come to _him_.

"No," Kurapika whispers, but it's already too late. He feels the pull, and imagines ghostly arms pulling him back, to the place where he dreams.

He blinks, and everything is white.

* * *

_He's_ sitting at the pool again, but it's no longer the silver of a mirror. It's almost pitch black, and Kurapika thinks of Kuroro's eyes, his hair. Wonders what it reminds the other one of.

"You can't win," the shadow says, and there was almost a hint of sadness in the otherwise hollow voice. Kurapika finds himself beside the pool, now, his feet guiding him to stand facing the wraith.

"No," Kurapika agrees, wiping away angry tears, "I can't. But I can't lose either. Not with Kuroro at stake."

The other him regards him coolly, without emotion.

"Futile," his shadow says, and pushes him over the edge, into the inky blackness of the pool. "What else could it be, when you can't even fight back?"

Kurapika's last thought was of Kuroro, as he mentally plunged into darkness. And he thought, heart shattering, that there was no way to save the man he loved.

_We don't love him anymore. We love only Leorio. _

* * *

Something shifts in the air as Kurapika blinks, slowly. And when he opens his eyes, they are no longer the ocean blue that Kuroro knows so well.

They glow with their intensity, their sheer force of hatred. Ruby red. And Kuroro's been around too much hatred, too much murderous intent, not to realize what it is as it washes over Kurapika's form in front of him.

Kuroro steps back, on guard immediately. He remembers the night Kurapika left, his almost incomprehensible words. About eyes the color of blood.

Kuroro doesn't understand, but he knows that this is it. This is what has been plaguing Kurapika's sleep; it is, perhaps, what has killed two members of his Ryodan already.

Chains dance across Kurapika's form, and Kuroro pulls out his skill book, slowly. He doesn't want to fight this thing, whatever it may be, not when it's in Kurapika's body. But, Kuroro realizes, as one of the chains suddenly darts towards him in deadly precision, that he might not have a choice.

"YOU KILLED MY CLAN!" the thing snarls, sending more chains at him, and the sheer hatred behind them gives them strength beyond Kuroro's. He dodges one, another, but misses the last two as they pummel into his left cheek and his lower abdomen. _Not even Uboguin was this strong_, he notes, almost detachedly, amazed despite his situation. _How is Kurapika doing this?_

Kuroro stands up, quickly. Looks at Kurapika, and for all of his murderous intent, for his blood red eyes, it is still _Kurapika. _The one he's loved for all of these years, the one who would never, ever hurt him. Kuroro hesitates to use his skill book, in that moment, and this slight pause is all that Kurapika needs.

Kurapika sends a chain to wrap around his middle, pulls Kuroro close to himself, viciously. "You'll pay," he snarls, and it sounds so wrong coming from Kurapika's voice. Kurapika raises a fist, and Kuroro expects it to hit him, even closes his eyes in anticipation of it.

A heartbeat later and Kuroro's eyes are open, his surprise evident in them. Kurapika stands over him, fist still raised, but his face is no longer contorted in rage.

Kurapika's eyes flicker.

* * *

_I don't know Leorio,_ a spark of consciousness thinks, realizes. _How can I love Leorio when I've never known him – never even met him?_

_I don't love Leorio. _

_I love Kuroro._

And Kurapika reaches out, blinded even as he is. His fingers find something, a single, frayed thread, and he holds on to it is stubbornly. He _pulls_ viciously at it, and as something at the end of it flails, he finds himself slowly moving up. To the surface.

And suddenly, there is light again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Series: **Hunter X Hunter  
**Title: **Persona  
**Rating: **PG-13  
**Pairing/ Characters: **Kurapika/Kuroro, some Kurapika/Leorio  
**Word Count: **2246  
**Warning/s: **None.  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

* * *

One minute he's in the pool, and the next, he isn't. Kurapika blinks, dazed, blinded not by darkness but the overwhelming light of this place, this crossroads between dimensions.

"Let go," Kurapika hears _him_ snarl, and he's suddenly aware that he's gripping the end of his doppelganger's shirt, the pale navy and gold pattern crushed like a butterfly's wings in his desperate grasp. Kurapika forces his own hand to open, to drop the fabric, which then falls back into place. "Go back – " _he_ continues, his voice filled with a fury that surpasses time, "you're interfering."

"You can't," Kurapika stutters, feels disgusted at himself for how pitiful and weak his own voice sounds, "you _can't_ hurt Kuroro."

"And how will you stop me?" the creature in front of him challenges, his voice contorting in a way that Kurapika hadn't imagined possible. "You no longer have any power here, you little fool. You're too weak to fight me for this body, this opportunity."

Kurapika breathes in, out, and realizes that this isn't true.

"I'm weaker," Kurapika admits, finally daring to look into the red eyes of his foe, his nemesis, himself. "But that doesn't mean that I can't fight."

"You can't win," the wraith repeats, from not that long ago. But before, Kurapika reflected, before it was true. It wasn't necessarily true anymore, after all…

"I'm keeping you here, aren't I?" Kurapika asks, rhetorically, as things begin to fall into place. The chains across his wrist, his own and not the wrist of the one in front of him, flare to life, dancing around his hand.

_He_ snarls with animalistic rage, eyes blazing and voice full of raw, undiluted fury, "I CAN'T LET HIM LIVE!"

And Kurapika was there, voice soft and meek, but no less powerful than _his_. "And I can't let him die," he says, barely above a whisper.

The wraith glances down at Kurapika's wrist, his eyes full of contempt that cannot quite manage to hide a spark of wariness. "Those chains are mine – they don't belong to you. Not really: you didn't have to work for them, you don't really understand how they work. I applaud you for even managing to make them move, but that's all you'll be able to do. Surely you don't expect to fight me here, with my own weapon, and expect to win?"

Kurapika thinks, and there is a faint flash of memory. "I don't need," Kurapika replies to _his _question, "to fight you with your chains. Surely you know how the myth of the doppelganger goes? You simply have to touch your double," Kurapika says, his voice barely a whisper, "and the weaker will disappear."

_He_ gives a sharp bark of a laugh, and Kurapika can see the confidence there, the power. "Don't be ridiculous – I've touched you plenty of times by now: pulling you out of your body, pushing you into the pool. If such a silly myth were true, one of us should already be gone."

Kurapika doesn't drop his gaze from the blood red eyes – knows with a dead certainty that there's something wrong with this, that his double isn't quite right. Because he's felt the pull, the part of his soul that feels the quiet darkness of rest, every time they've touched – he's felt as if he could disappear, if he were just a little less careful. "But you've been stronger than me," Kurapika says to the man in front of him, "every time. Up until now, you would have won. I can't fight," Kurapika shudders now, feeling the cold fury that this place, this crossroads, is infused with, "an anger that can surpass dimensions."

Kurapika takes a deep breath, continues. "You've had the ability to make me disappear – I'm sure that you've felt it as well. You knew, just as you know it still, that with just an extra little push, I would have ceased to exist entirely.

"But," Kurapika closes his eyes now, finds the truth under all of the hatred, the pain, the loneliness, "you're didn't want to make me disappear, not really. Your hatred is reserved for the Genei Ryodan, the Ryodan that you knew. In your eyes, despite everything you think me guilty of, I am still innocent when compared to them. I was not a part of the massacre of your clan, after all. You fear it, the guilt that's plagued you for so long: the guilt that banishes you to shower stalls and the darkest corners of your mind – and killing me would bring it back.

"That's what sets us apart, really," Kurapika barrels on, not needing to search the other's face for a confirmation. He doesn't need to see to know that he's right, he can simply _feel_. They are the same person, after all, and Kurapika finally understands what that means. "You would feel guilty if I were to disappear. I, however," Kurapika's voice takes on a sharp edge, and he's hit with the truth that this is the first time that he's been the aggressive one, the dangerous one, "do not suffer from the same fear of guilt.

"You see, _Kurapika_," Kurapika snarls, "I want you to disappear. I truly do. This is my life, my dimension, my opportunity, and you have no place in it."

The wraith in front of him looks less than fazed. "Knowledge does you no good," he finally replies, in a voice reserved for the dead, "if you can't conjure up the strength to act on it. I was stronger every time before, as you've admitted. What makes you think that I am not stronger, still?"

Kurapika sighs, exhales all of the self-doubt, all of the fear, the sleepless nights. The memories that aren't quite his own, of a village that he's never been in, of people whom he's never seen. "Because I won't let you be," Kurapika says, and bridges the gap.

Kurapika's fingers are soft as they tentatively brush the other's cheekbone and draws them together. He notes, not for the first time, how much more color he has, how much more vivid and healthy his skin looks in comparison. Blood red eyes narrow dangerously at him, and he feels a tug at his chest, trying to push him away. But even now, after Kurapika's words, the wraith isn't giving everything to the endeavor – is, instead, holding himself back, being held back by the humanity running through his veins, the compassion beating in his heart.

Kurapika brushes the feeling aside, easily. Because he can't back down now, not this time. He can't afford to lose.

"I'm sorry," Kurapika says, and doesn't quite know why he's apologizing to this man who has invaded his life: only knows that he has to for the loss of a dream and the futility of revenge. He knows that he's ruining it, all of it, for the shadow in front of him; that he's erasing a lifetime of work, of obsession. That he is preventing what the other has sacrificed everything for, has left his loved ones and crossed dimensions for. "I'm sorry," Kurapika repeats, "but I can't let Kuroro die. He is," here Kurapika scrambles for words, for an expression of feeling that the other will be able to understand, "he is to me what Leorio is to you."

And Kurapika knows, immediately, that it was the right thing to say.

The wraith's eyes widen, Kurapika hears him take a sharp breath. There's panic, there, swirling in _his_ ruby red eyes: an emotion Kurapika's never seen before on _his_ face. His eyes swirl, furiously, a storm in them, a tempest, and Kurapika wonders if they'll both be washed away.

The shadow of him takes a deep, shuddering breath, and blinks. Exhales, and disappears on his own breath, stepping forward slightly and falling _into_ Kurapika.

Kurapika sobs, feeling _him_ there, inside. Feeling now what the memories had tried to impart on him; the pain of being the last one. He feels the hatred, the lust for revenge, battling deep inside of him, trying to get out, to be free once more. And he can't for the life of him figure out how he contains it all, how he keeps it there and doesn't let it spill over only that he _has _to – that if he can't then it will be the end of them both.

He falls to the ground of the gray place, and tries to remember who he is. And after an eternity, he does.

* * *

When he wakes up, he finds Kuroro hovering over him, ever-present worry written on his face. But with that worry is a sense of wariness, as if the older man's not sure whether Kurapika will collapse in his arms or try to kill him again.

Kurapika allows himself a little smile at this – he wouldn't trust himself either, if he were Kuroro. But he knows that it's done, that he's in control now, and that he will be for the long run.

But things have changed.

Because he remembers, now. He remembers all of it, and not just what he should remember, from his own life. _He's_ still there, somewhere, and with _him_ comes the memories, the feelings, the pain and agony of a lifetime. And Kurapika knows that he will never be free of it – isn't sure that he wants to be free of it.

Because, for all of his words, of his conviction, some part of him doesn't want the other to die, to disappear completely. Because _he_ was just lonely, under all of _his_ layers, all of _his_ cloaks of anger and mindless revenge: _he _was, after all, the last of his kind.

And as Kurapika closes his eyes, to fall back into the sleep that he no longer fears, they are neither ocean blue nor ruby red, but the deep purple of dreams.

* * *

Kuroro had never told any of the others.

Kurapika didn't believe that he ever would, really. This was a private affair, very much revolving around them, and the other person in his head. It was a fight against the Ryodan, but really, the Ryodan had no voice in it.

There was no real reason to tell them in his case. But for Kuroro – Kurapika suspected that the other man simply loved him too much to ever speak a word.

Sometimes Kurapika suspected that Shalnark knew: that the genius had somehow figured it out. The taller blond would sometimes simply _stare_ at him, eyes unreadable. But even if Shalnark had realized what had transpired, he seemed for some unknown reason willing to let it lie.

And even if Shalnark were to speak of it to him someday – well, what could Shalnark really do to him, anyways?

Kurapika had the utmost faith in Kuroro to protect him from all harm.

If only his own faith were enough.

They did not touch. It had been months – almost a year. But Kurapika could not let them touch.

Because sometimes when Kurapika simply _looked_ into the eyes of the man in front of him, he could taste the blood and corpses on his tongue. They were _his _memories, but that did not make them any less real, any less poignant. The images were there, haunting him, speaking to him, berating him, because at the end of it all, Kuroro hadn't changed at all. In this world, and in _his_ world, Kuroro had done the same exact thing and massacred the Kurata tribe.

And even when it was simply a brush of Kuroro's hand against his, there would be the anguished screaming of a hundred ghosts in his head…

It was pathetic how he could not fight the past. Even when it was not his past.

Because, really, he hadn't won against _him_. Kurapika hadn't put up a substantial fight at all. It wasn't even Kuroro who had won.

It was simply that _he_ lost.

* * *

Two months later, Kurapika's standing thirty meters away from a cottage overlooking the sea. Kuroro's by his side, perplexed.

"What are we doing here, again?" Kuroro asks him, for what must be the thousandth time.

Kurapika takes in the salt air, closes his eyes and imagines himself floating on the sea. "We're meeting an old friend."

This answer, the one that Kurapika's given every time, is no less perplexing. Kuroro, after all, knows all of Kurapika's old friends. They were, in fact, mostly limited to the Ryodan itself – and he knew for a fact that no member of the Ryodan lived in the area.

But Kurapika's already walking briskly away, headed towards the cottage. Kuroro follows him, curious, and half wary. To the raven-haired man's surprise, Kurapika doesn't knock on the door, but walks around the house, to a small side window, and peers in.

With equal care, Kuroro peers over Kurapika's shoulder. There is a man in the cottage, sitting at a desk, almost completely buried in his books. There's a look of concentration, of sincerity and deep honesty that Kurapika and Kuroro were no longer capable of. He was a nen-user, Kuroro could tell that much, but a weak one. No where near the level of any of the Ryodan.

Kurapika sighs, turns away from the window and starts walking away. Kuroro's confused, still, at all of this, but hurries to catch up.

"His name is Leorio," Kurapika says, without Kuroro needing to ask.

And something inside of the blonde, some knot of tension, of discontent, can finally lay itself down and sleep.

* * *

AN: And that's it.

I remember, maybe a couple of years ago, when I declared that I would be writing a Hunter X Hunter multipart fic. I resolved myself then and there not to start posting any of it until I had written all of it – considering how most of my multipart stories have been abandoned.

And in all honesty, _Persona_ was nearly abandoned as well.

I wrote the good part of five or so chapters, with a vague idea of how I wanted the story to continue around a year and a half ago. I've somehow managed to edit (poorly) and write the rest of this story in the past two days.

I'm not sure if I want to write a sequel, but at this point, I'm leaning towards no.

I'm probably going to start writing another multipart fic for the Slayers fandom, soon. Or within next year or so, at any rate. I find good Slayers stories to be horribly lacking, sadly, with only a few exceptions.

At any rate, I hope that all you readers out there found the ideas for this fic new and original. Maybe even exciting. I know that I haven't seen anything quite like it out there before.

Written for my enjoyment, and hopefully, yours. Drop in a review, if it's not too much trouble.

Dedicated to all of the dedicated writers of Hunter X Hunter out there, especially to authors like Yukitsu, lynlyn, KosagiNoLegion, and Mistress 259 who write Hunter X Hunter stories good enough to make my toes curl.

Cheers,

Inverse-chan


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